His Majesty's Elephant by Judith Tarr

once, empty, and threw herself face down in front of the altar, struggling for breath.
    The floor was hard and cold. The vigil lamp burned low. The wooden Virgin was mute.
    Her mother was not there. She did not want her mother to be there, her mother the witch, who had bred magic in her daughter.
    Rowan’s breath came back soon enough, but her mind kept circling and circling, trying to fly out of itself. She could not stay here in Aachen, where this terrifying truth was. But where could she go?
    She raised her head from her folded arms. The Virgin smiled her eternal smile.
    Why, thought Rowan, of course. The one refuge that could protect her; the best refuge of all.
    Gisela wanted it, but lacked the fortitude to take it. The one for whom Gisela was named, their father’s sister, had gone to it long ago. She was an abbess now, somewhere in the west of Francia.
    Rowan would not have to go so far. Abbess Gisela had been in Aachen till a little while ago, visiting her brother and his children; then she had gone to Cologne, to a cloister there, to rest her head from the clamor of palaces, and to pray in peace where someone else was abbess. Cologne was close to Aachen, not much more than a day’s ride.
    Rowan sat up.
    Yes, she thought. She would go to Cologne. Aunt Gisela was wise, if not exactly kind, and she had known Rowan’s mother well. She would know what to do.
    Rowan went alone. She could hardly ask a servant to go with her, and her sisters would ask too many questions.
    She crept into the room she shared with Bertrada. The maid was there, sound asleep. Rowan gathered what she needed, moving as silently as she could, jumping every time Bertrada stirred. But the woman never woke. Softly, clutching the bundle of her belongings, Rowan slipped out of the room.
    If Galla had been in the stable it would have been hard: it was almost time for the horses to wake and start demanding breakfast. But the pony was in the pasture just outside the walls, where there was a postern gate, and she was puzzled but not dismayed to find Rowan there at this unwonted hour.
    She took the bit willingly enough, and blew out as she always did for the saddle, but Rowan was used to that. Rowan walked her forward, tightened the girth its usual three fingers’ worth, and swung into the saddle, tugging at the fastenings of her bundle. They held; they would do.
    Galla was eager to go. She pranced, even, and snorted a little, to show that she was fresh.
    Dawn was breaking as they took the road. Dark lingered under the trees that lined it, but it was the Emperor’s road, broad and smooth, and the sides of it were kept clear of trees.
    No one met Rowan, and no one threatened her. She might have been alone in all the world, but for the pony under her and the birds that sang, greeting the rising sun.
    Galla was half Arab, and she was both fast and strong, but no horse could go on all day at a gallop, if its rider cared for it at all. Out of sight of Aachen, where the road bent a little south of east and the trees closed in in places to overhang the track, Rowan slowed the pony to a trot, and then to a walk.
    Galla was still restive, tossing her head and sidling, shying at something in the trees. Rowan peered at first, wary enough herself to bolt, but she saw nothing, nor was there anything to hear. It was horse-silliness, that was all.
    Rowan kicked her forward, a little harder than was strictly necessary. Galla started but did not buck. Rowan patted her neck, contrite.
    Maybe, Rowan thought, she should go back. Her father had given away the Talisman that should have protected him, and he did not even know it.
    â€œBut what can I do?” she said to the air and the trees and Galla’s finely turned ears. “I’m not a man, to fight with a sword, or a sorcerer, to fight with magic. I can pray, that’s all. And prayer is best done on holy ground.”
    â€œYou always have excuses, don’t you?”
    Galla stopped